Perceive
by MissPopularMIZ
Summary: He picked up his keys, said she had been great /yeah, a great lay/ and told her /not whispered, as many had done in the past/ that his name was Larry, not James.


Perceive

MissPopularMIZ

She cried his name and rolled off of him. The gesture was almost instantaneous and, if not for the fact that the name of a stranger had escaped her swollen red lips (and that she was attempting to disappear in the big bed where she lied) where any indications; the soft cries and the way that she covered herself with the sparse blanket the exact moment she sighed indicated what he already knew: he was to leave.

She was the angry one although it didn't make any sense since she wasn't the one that was currently trying to cover her nudity. He picked up his keys, said she had been great (yeah, a great lay) and told her (not whispered, as many had done in the past) that his name was Larry, not James.

It was not the first time his name was thrown when in the depths of passion. And it wouldn't be the last time his name would come to haunt her in her own house (and you add in your head, in your own bed). He was like a ghost. Ethereal, perfect, impenetrable. And a complete product of your over-exerted mind. And she didn't know how and when to acknowledge it; for what it really was; not intended to be.

Of course she was sick of it. It had been going on for months now. But yet, she rolled over once more to sleep alone, having nothing left but the soft shushing sounds of her silent cries (and the path of her tears) as her only company. Heartache was a constant. Why change it when it was so addictive you needed a fix every other night after crawling into the arms of any Tom, Dick or Harry pretending you were with him?

The date had been two months ago. But still you remember every detail. The way he smiled, frowned, asked if you were okay was... Strange. To say the least. Was he not feeling comfortable? You should be the one fidgeting, finding it awkward. After all, you were attempting to find if he would be up for the challenge. Either being the sperm donor or much more (even though you deny it with all of your teeth that you like him). Oh! And every time he marries one of your friends, you get patched-drunk at home ('cause you always tell him you have to work and cannot attend the wedding) and then, you grab the closest male in the facility (generally, the gardener or the postman) to entertain your mind, if only for one night (or day). You shrug it off. Maybe it was the wine.

But, as you look at your nightstand, you can't but imagine what it would have been like had your diner/date been "real". You still hold yourself responsible for there was an elephant in that enormous room you decided to hide in between the curtains. And that humongous thing kept breathing down your neck until you paid the check. Had you been honest with him, what would have happened?

There's a relicat of that night near you. It's the only thing that offers you the console you need through the tempest that has become your life. It has not lost its colour. Or even its scent. And it laughs at you from your nightstand amongst the medical books (and the latest issue of cosmopolitan you scattered on top so you can feel feminine at the end of the day). It fells satin under your fingers. Crocked satin. And, for a while, you wish it would just disappear, just fade away. But roses never fade, silly.

They always tend to die.

There's a phone nearby. One of those cordless things you use in order to talk to somebody who's miles away from you. You decide that, since you're feeling a tad depressed, having a good cry at somebody's ear would be perfect. Maybe you can call him and shout how much in pain you really are. How much love you've bottled up for him to take. How much closed up from love you've become since you first lay eyes on him.

The rain is falling in my windowpane and the sound echoes all around me. It shatters as my own salty ones drop down my face. They don't make trails, or leave angry white lines down my face. No. For a while (actually, since you married Julie), they drop directly onto the floor, although now, that I'm lying down, they wet the cotton sheet underneath me. Do you want to know why? You're taken away all my hope. They say third time's the charm. But look at you: you've been married thrice. Martha, Joan, Julie. Hell! Why do I always want what was theirs (stupid bitches) and not mine to keep? Believe me when I say I tried to put you behind; forget your face the easy way. Hell! I didn't ask for love! I didn't need the pain I knew it would entrail every time a damn ivory envelope would reach my desk via one of your ex-spouses. Hell! Once or twice was enough. But the third time, you knew that even though you presented yourself with it, it would be in vain. There has always been a reason I never came up to one of your weddings: it was too easy to give in temptation. There were rings, free food, the obnoxious present, the dress-up thing. And you. You would be in there kissing one of my friends senseless and she would compel. For every one of them knew the extent of my platonic love. For you.

Oh god! I hate you for that! Why would you feel compelled to marry every one of my closest friends? Anonymous strangers weren't good enough for you?

It pains me. Love is full of mischief and it plots a perfect start. At least, in my head. I don't care if you think I'm inebriated. I just… I just thought I had had enough. Enough of my lies. And even if you don't care for me the way I care for you, just hear me out.

I woke up and looked in the mirror (the antique one that hangs on the bathroom, the one that Joan praised every time you two dropped by). And you know what? I lost it. I smashed it. 'Cause when the mirror showed me myself, my true self, not the persona, the mask, the shell of the woman I fought so hard to become, I tried, once again, to be someone else. You're asking me why? Do I have to spell it out for you? Because I didn't like the reflection that graze my eyes. I tried to become someone who could still love me despite all my mistakes. Someone who could accept the true me and not that rumpled sketch. But my eyes; it was too raw to see love written all over my eyes. The longing…

And there's only one explanation why it was not me who was reflected in that mirror: the way I have always been so caught up in between all you wish for and not all I need. So, once again, I lift myself up just to have me fall back on my knees. This time, tough, I will not deign myself with my sympathy. The script is all wrong. I'm the one you should be with. Not talking to on the phone.

And whilst I stare at the window, struggling for something to say to you that will definitely shut you up, you keep on rambling about these things about me that, supposedly, everybody sees but me. Stop telling me I am the one who doesn't know my worth. You're the one who's the «wonder boy»; the one who always get in too deep. You're the one who doesn't know their worth: their mark in earth. You make a difference everyday (not like me). You're worth it. Even if you're not worth my tears. I'm the one to whom nobody whispers "I love you". And this not even when I say it first. You have a wife. Maybe it's «make-believe» but you do not enter a cold bed every night. She is in there to keep you warm.

Stumble. I can only take so much of this without getting tired. Moreover, I know my words are blurred. But yet, you have been able to discern my thoughts. There is no need in reaffirming what I already know: everyone around me thinks that I'm going crazy. The youngest dean of medicine in history is losing it. Maybe.

James, you know what? I just realized I'm in dire need of a shrink. Someone to analyze me without touching my soul with words. Someone to tell me I am not the problem. Someone to advise me without judging me. Someone who would tell me to blame it all in my father (since he was the one who walked away into the sun without a goodbye): blame all my misfortunes, my way around people, my need to control everything and everyone. Someone I could crush. To fell power. The reason why I choose unavailable and too emotional men to join me in my bed. Yeah. I suppose this shrink will say that Freud has some pretty little label to put over all my problems: something about an "I-don't-know-what-to-call-it-but-let's-say-you've-been-neglected" complex. What do I know?

You're the one who ends up crashing at some skanky motel. You're the one who leaves them behind. They fill the divorce papers hating you. But I don't hate you. I could never do. Are you already looking for another one of those Barbie girls you intend to marry?

Damn you, James Wilson! If you keep trying to soothe me I will hang up on you! Just shut up, for once. I am the one that is calling you and not the other way round. I don't want you to come to my place! Do you even understand English? What good would that be? You cutting me open and…

Yeah, yeah, yeah, mom. I got it: can't get no love without sacrifice. Stupid 17th century fairy tales with all their misconceptions about our true love… As if I am being held captive in this tower and have to throw you my hair in order for you to rejoin me. Or that you're going to kiss me all better and we will have this "happily ever after". I think they needed a Valium back on those days.

Julie called me. Painted this picture perfect but I do know that, when she wakes up in the morning, she has nobody near her. You'll be sleeping with someone else to keep your feet warm. Either way, she told me I was a bitch. And also that I should help you to understand what love is about. Wasn't she cryptic? I mean, I can't conceive what she was talking about. How could I be a bitch? I'm not the one who you're with. Is it that blond nurse from surgery who assist Dr. Williams? Oh! And she gave me some advice too.

But… what the hell? I'm sharing with you those words I longed to hear coming from your mouth. I'm telling you those lies I make up to feel better about my life. They are designed to elude me. 'cause, God! What the hell have I done to not be deigned with your kindness? The sense of justice is nothing more than a shallow promise. An empty threat. Just like love.

Dear god, I know I haven't been a good Jew but I am a woman; I'm more than what you've ever made of me. For loving the wrong man, you took away my hope, divested me of love and left me bleeding in my marble floor. I should be crying 

but even my hands would not muffle my sobs. And there is no way I will show you any weakness (even if it's 4 AM and I'm cold). You would only laugh at me. Deject me. So, why don't you kick me when I'm down? Go ahead. Give me your best shot. My God is full of crap. Make me your mockery. You are not the God full of compassion, love and all that yadda, yadda that people teach about. I know I am not child but why would you rob my happiness? Why make me fell disbelief and not protect me from dejection? From hurt?

Every religion preaches that their God is full of love, of commiseration. But why did you left me in my darkest hour? Why with all I ever want there's a price to pay? Don't you think I've had enough heartbreak to last me a lifetime? You don't make me feel safe anymore. I renounce you.

Isn't it grand? I am not the girl you embrace; see first thing in the morning... And you're just the perfect guy. You're smart, handsome, sensitive... And I'm just that girl who never had too many a chance where love is concerned. It appears I am always late. And I keep falling apart. It appears misery does really love me. And I will follow wherever she leads me. I won't forget the urge to give in. It is easier than fighting for my happy ending. Dumb...

We're like strangers. I have too much love to give and no one to take it from. You have Julie's affection and yet, you chose to not offer her any. I told you your relationship was doomed from the very beginning. You don't really love her. Nor me.

Jimmy… After all, am I supposed to be happy when there is no picture perfect in sight? I am a lone woman who will stay a spinster for the rest of life. I'm telling you: love is unexpected. Unpredictable. Un… And also, it feels so wrong for me. You… A man… A relationship… It sounds doomed from the start. After all, I'm broken beyond repair. You know the clichés you have to say (but don't feel) instead of all those things you should say but never felt strong enough to shout. It's wrong. Two people trembling softly in the moonlight, moaning each other's names, touching, kissing, licking… and after that page is turned, what? Two strangers meeting a few years later in a lobby that won't even look each other in the eye. We'll exchange «hello's» and go on our merry way. Rain will come to wash away their past; and there's nothing left of that sense of domesticity that they felt three years prior. Their mutual hate will start when they face the wall, their backs turned. They will forget to exchange "I love you"s after sex, forget the place of a pan… And I don't feel like joining that club.

James? Are you still there?

I'm hearing all that what you're saying but I just can't make a sound. I zoned out. My mind is playing tricks with me. I hear you saying all those words I've been waiting for so long that I automatically think I'm imagining them. I'm not satisfied with where I am at in life. My pain radiates around me. For years, I can only see red. Let me fell nothing but pain. No more Love. No more hollow promises.

Love... was all I ever wanted, needed, from you. And never got. But, hey! You can't miss what you don't know, can you?

I like darkness, you know? It engulfs me. Protects me from those who left me. Still, how are you supposed to feel after bittersweet goodbyes? I do not what to share any more secret laughs and do that endless flirting we used to. I'm here. Take me or leave me. But don't leave me alone; bring me to light. It is simple: either you say "yes" or a simple "no". There are strings attached to my heart. I won't be the one removing them: I don't fell impaired nor do I have that power. So, it is time to ask yourself: is it you the one I've been waiting for?

But my answers kept on changing and I had long forgotten what it was that I was looking for. Even so close, I know I will always be one small step behind you. You're not alone. But lonely people like me just gazer their eyes on air. Hoping for forgiveness. And maybe, just maybe, something more...

'Cause at 35, you finally realize that love is not about how you perceive it, but how you feel it. There are no happy endings (at least, for you). Your life won't turn the way fairy tales do because "happily ever after's" are only true in books. The scars you've self-inflicted are there for everyone to see. Loneliness will be your new rule for, all this time, you were chasing dreams without knowing what you wanted them to mean.

Melancholy is the pleasure to be sad. You've been knocking at the wrong door. For far too long.

It's time to let go.


End file.
